The Babe and the Baron
Page 21
It was best for both of them that she should go back to the quiet contentment of her cottage, with the added joy of her child.
Changing horses at the Feathers in Ludlow was painful. Every turn of the street in the little market town reminded Laura of Gareth. Every glimpse of the castle recalled his explanation of his fears and the brief embrace which had shaken her world.
The change was quickly accomplished and they drove on. After that, Laura and Myfanwy were kept too busy entertaining Priscilla for regrets. The miles and the days passed, until at last they reached Cambridge, where they spent the last night on the road.
“I do not want to arrive at the cottage in the evening,” she told Myfanwy. “It has stood uninhabited for ten months so I daresay it will take a day or two to set all to rights. At the very least the sheets will need airing.”
The first sight of the cottage was dispiriting. The beech hedge was so overgrown, the gate was barely passable. In the tiny front garden, violets, primroses, crocuses, and daffodils struggled through a mat of last year's dead weeds and this year's already thriving dandelions and goosegrass. The latch on the front door was so rusty with disuse it took the coachman's strength to budge it.
Inside was worse. The dust Laura had expected—the money she left for Sally had run out long since, and she could not expect the girl to go on cleaning for no wages, especially with no notion when Laura might return. The dank chill and the cobwebs were unpleasant but inevitable. But upon opening the parlour door, she found the floor and furniture nearest the fireplace covered with soot.
“A bird in the chimbley that'll be,” said Myfanwy, peeping around her, “or a squirrel, mayhap.”
“Let us hope whatever it was is not stuck in the chimney,” Laura exclaimed. “The rug and the chairs will never be the same again.”
Whatever it was in the chimney, the cause of the chaos in the kitchen was plain. A very dead squirrel lay under the stone sink. The smell was indescribable. Pots and pans and broken china littered the floor, the flowered chintz curtains were shredded, and gnaw-marks on the window frame showed where the poor creature had tried to escape. How it had entered was a mystery.
No mystery about how the rain had entered the back bedroom, producing a flourishing crop of mildew: a falling branch had broken a windowpane. It had then fallen on the woodshed and crashed through the roof. Practically all the firewood was damp.
Laura and Myfanwy looked at each other and laughed, because the only alternative was to cry. “At the very least,” Laura ironically repeated her own words, “the sheets will need airing.”
“A day or two to set all to rights,” the maid quoted. “Well, my lady, longer'n that it'll take us, seemingly, but the sooner 'tis begun, the sooner 'tis done.”
* * * *
During Gareth's absence, a stack of letters had accumulated on his desk in the library. They promised distraction from his misery, so he resolutely ploughed through them.
All but one were easily dealt with, or set aside to be answered later. The one he took to Aunt Antonia's sitting room.
He found the old lady seated at her bureau. Writing paper, blotting paper, inkstand, quills, sealing wafers lay before her, but the writing paper was blank, the pen in her hand undipped.
She set down the pen as he entered, and passed a hand across her eyes. The gesture wiped out the melancholy expression on her face, but not before Gareth had seen it. Her smile was an obvious effort.
“What can I do for you, Gareth?”
“I've a letter from Maria. She is engaged to be married—and I am not.” The last four words were reft from him against his will.
His aunt's face crumpled. “I miss her already.” She was not talking of Maria.
Gareth slumped into the nearest chair. “I've lost her. I did everything wrong. You heard me ask her to marry me?”
“No, but I guessed. No doubt it was unwise to toss so momentous a question at her so abruptly, and so publicly.”
“I ought to have demanded a word with her in private, but I lost my head when I saw she waited only upon my arrival to depart. Why was she in such a hurry to go? After all these months, did I not deserve a proper leave-taking?”
“I believe she was hurt that you absented yourself when she had so little time remaining at Llys. I could not take it upon myself to tell her you had gone to Town to speak to her father. With what success?”
“What does it matter since she won't have me?” he mourned, burying his face in his hands.
“My dear Gareth,” Aunt Antonia said in a caustic tone she had rarely used towards him since boyhood, “surely you do not mean to give up so easily? I had thought better of you. A momentary despair is excusable. Indeed, I shared it myself. But—”
“Where's young what's'ername?” Uncle Julius invaded the sitting room with his usual lack of ceremony. “You know the one I mean, the pretty chit with the baby. Can't put my finger on her name. Hazel? Heather? Ivy? Lilian?”
“Laura,” Gareth and his aunt said as one.
“That's the one. I knew it had something to do with plants. I've finished the baby-pen. Where is she?”
“Laura has gone back to Cambridgeshire, Julius.”
The inventor gaped at her in consternation. “Gone? And taken the baby?”
“Yes, Uncle.” Gareth jumped up, shaken by a sudden hope. “But never fear, I shall take the baby-pen to her. Don't you see, Aunt, it will give me an excuse to follow her, so she doesn't feel persecuted. I shall let a few days lapse, to give her time to settle into her cottage. And when I get there, I shall tell her about Maria, and explain that I should have better grounds for keeping George and Henry and Arabella if I were married—”
“No! Do not, for heaven's sake, Gareth, confuse the issue any further. Tell her you love her!”
Gareth grinned. “Yes, ma'am. Aunt Antonia always knows best.”
* * * *
“Priscilla, no!” Laura caught the baby's hand just as the celandine was about to disappear into her mouth.
Pris screeched in annoyance as her hand was pried open. Just a moment ago she had been lying quietly on the rug on the lawn, playing happily with her own feet. Laura had turned from wrestling with a particularly stubborn dandelion to find her daughter ten feet from where she had been laid. Oh, for Uncle Rupert's baby-pen!
The mild March day slipped towards evening. The air was growing chilly. Pris in her arms, Laura turned back to gaze at the patch of vegetable bed she had cleared of weeds. The expected sense of accomplishment was missing. She did not seem to be able to feel anything these days other than the hollow ache in her heart.
“Time to go in, lovie. Myfanwy will be back from the farm soon with a nice fresh egg for your supper.”
“Ma-ma-ma-ga-ga,” said Priscilla.
Was she saying Mama on purpose? Surely she was too young to be trying to say Gareth. She missed him, and all her friends at Llys, Laura was certain, though Myfanwy ascribed her increased fussiness to teething.
They went into the cottage, clean again and neat as a new pin except for the parlour fireside chairs, for which new covers would have to be made. The sweep had come that morning and swept a rook's nest out of the chimney. In the kitchen, wood was stacked by the fireplace to dry out. Laura noticed the fire was low. She might as well mend it before she cleaned off the garden dirt.
Pris started her wet-napkin whimper just as Laura heard the front door open and close. Myfanwy came into the kitchen and set down a can of milk and a basket of eggs, butter, and cheese on the table.
“Take her upstairs and change her please,” said Laura. “Just her napkin, not her clothes, which will be all over food in no time. I must wash my hands.”
“There's your face could do with a scrub, too, my lady,” Myfanwy said with a smile. “Pushed your hair out of your eyes with a muddy hand you did, I 'spect. Come on then, Miss Pris.”
Priscilla decided to take exception to the transfer. She bawled as the maid carried her upstairs, and furious screams cam
e from above. Tears stung Laura's eyes as she turned to the fireplace. The silliest things made her want to cry nowadays, though so far she had managed not to weep until she was alone in her bed at night.
Her eyes were soon stinging in earnest. Inattentive, she had put a damp log on the fire and choking smoke billowed out. The tears that poured down her face were not all smoke-caused, however, as spluttering she groped for the fire-tongs.
Then through the haze strode a familiar figure. Gareth removed the tongs from her grasp and the offending log from the fire. His arm around her waist, he propelled her out to the tiny hall at the foot of the stairs. Priscilla's wails resounded, but Gareth paid them no heed as he folded Laura in an irresistible embrace and kissed her thoroughly.
Clinging to him, she kissed him back. She had never known a kiss could set her blood on fire and make the rest of the world vanish.
“My darling, I love you,” he said at last in a shaky voice. “Will you be my wife?”
“But I have mud on my face,” she protested weakly.
He held her away from him and studied her with care. “Not much. I expect most of it is on mine by now. Laura, my dearest girl, you cannot kiss me like that and then refuse to marry me.”
Laura flushed and lowered her gaze to his mud-smeared cravat. After hiding her love for so long, she had given away the secret. To deny it now was to proclaim herself a slut. Was it possible he truly loved her too? Or was it only words, to persuade her to take Priscilla back to Llys?
But he had ignored the baby's howls—was ignoring them as they grew suddenly louder—
“Beg pardon, my lady, my lord, but it's her supper Miss Pris wants, and right this minute.”
Her cheeks aflame, Laura escaped into the parlour. She crossed to the window and stood fiddling nervously with the cord tying back the curtain. A moment later, scarce long enough for Gareth to greet Myfanwy and kiss Priscilla, whose yells instantly changed to coos, the door thudded shut behind Laura with a click of the latch.
His firm footsteps sounded on the brick floor. His arms closed around her and he nuzzled her neck, sending a tremor through her body.
“Well?”
“Gareth, it is not...it's not that you want Priscilla so badly you are prepared to marry me to get her?”
He laughed, the wretch! “Beloved, much as I love Pris, the one I want badly is you, and not at all in the manner in which I want Pris!”
“Truly?” She turned in his arms, her gaze searching his face. “But I know I'm not attractive in that...that way.”
“What the deuce makes you think not?” he exclaimed, his clasp tightening.
Laura hid her face in his shoulder. “Freddie,” she said in a muffled voice.
“Damn Freddie! He told you so? He was a sad rattle but I had not thought him cruel.”
“Oh no, he was never deliberately cruel. He just never... that is, he hardly ever...” She took a deep breath. “He eloped with me out of kindness, because I was so unhappy at home, but he never touched me, not before we were married. He was too busy gambling with his friends. And afterwards, he was rarely at home, and when he was, generally in his cups.”
“Good gad! Yet, having known Freddie for a baconbrained clunch any time these twenty years, why should I be surprised to learn he was blind to the charms of the most desirable woman in the world?” With one finger Gareth raised her chin till she was forced to look up at him, to see the sincerity in his deep blue eyes. Then he bent his head and kissed her lips very gently. “You are, you know, to me. Why else should I break my vow never to wed?”
“Gareth, you don't... You say I'm the most... You don't want a marriage in name only, do you? Because I don't think I could bear it.”
“Confound it, no! Have you not understood a word I've been saying, little goose? Not to mention actions, which are supposed to speak louder than words.”
“They do,” Laura said pertly, reassured at last, pressing herself against him. “But I shall not let you wrap me in cotton-wool when I am in the family way.”
“I know it,” he said with a rueful smile, which swiftly gave way to the pleading look she knew so well. “Laura, you don't object to preventing conception by artificial means, do you?”
“Is it possible?” she asked in astonishment.
“Quite possible. I have made it my business to find out—That's why I went to London, incidentally. You see why I could not explain my absence! The method I learned about, though not infallible, is not difficult when you know how.”
“I have no religious objection, if that is what you mean. But I want your children!”
“And I yours. A few. What I don't want is for you to be worn out by child-bearing, like Mama. I love you too much.”
“Enough not to care if you are ostracized for marrying me?”
“Quite enough, but it is not a fate I expect.” Raising his determined chin, Gareth looked down his aristocratic nose at her. “Much as it grieves me to boast, I must inform you that my consequence is sufficient for both of us.”
“Hoity-toity!”
“Not that it will be needed. Aunt Antonia is all agog to welcome you as my bride, and when people see both her and your family accepting you—”
“Truly?”
“Truly. Another reason I went up to Town was to speak to your father. Oh, I've just had a simply splendid notion.” His eyes gleamed. “I shall make Aunt Sybil hold a betrothal party for us.”
“No, Gareth, you must not!”
“Your wish is my command,” he said mournfully. “But you will marry me, won't you?”
“Yes, my dearest, I will.”
A highly satisfactory embrace followed, cut short—but not very short—by a piercing shriek from the kitchen.
“Oh dear,” Laura sighed, “I'm afraid that means Priscilla wants me to give her supper. She lets Myfanwy do everything else, but not feed her.”
“A female of decided opinions, like her mama.” Gareth released Laura and looked her over by the last of the evening light. He grinned. “Not much worse than when I arrived. I daresay Pris won't mind tousled hair and a dirty face if I don't.”
“Heavens, I forgot.” A warm happiness filled her from tip to toe: He loved her even in her present state. “You are not much better yourself. Come on.” She took his hand and led the way out to the hall, where another shriek greeted them. “Do you know, Pris said ga-ga today and I was sure she was trying to say Gareth.”
“She will have to learn to say Dada or Papa now.” He held Laura back for a moment and kissed the nape of her neck before they entered the kitchen.
Yet another shriek cut off abruptly at their appearance. Priscilla beamed. “Da-da-da-da,” she said obligingly.
Copyright © ; 1997 by Carola Dunn
Originally published by Zebra (0821755439)
Electronically published in 2007 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228
http://www.RegencyReads.com
Electronic sales: ebooks@regencyreads.com
This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.
Table of Contents
Title page
THE BABE AND THE BARON
Carola Dunn
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter
17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20